To dare
by Miss. Jily Shipper
Summary: It was risky, it was shaky, some might say impossible. A story of friends who were closer than siblings, of love that was powerful and a life well lived. The circumstances were tough, a prejudiced, war riddled world, enemies on their back door, and traitors within. Others would have given up. But they dared.


**Chapter One -The Holidays**

The smell of pancakes wafted in through the crook of a wooden door, spreading into the room like dripping cheese and rousing its occupant from the undoubtedly uncomfortable position that she rested in.

Lily Marie Evans bolted upright, her red hair a bedraggled mess, inquisitively opened an eye and sniffed. Then, determining the smell worthy of her attention rose up. Hurriedly brushing her hair and plaiting her teeth (or was it the other way round?) she stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Her mother, a stately, curved lady in the age that danced with forty, rounded off with brown hair, now salted with white, sat on the table, nursing her daily coffee. The wrinkles around her eyes were beginning to form, though her eyes had lost none of the sharpness that Lily remembered. Spotting Lily, she exclaimed, "Well, look who's up early! Are pigs flying, George?"

"Just a minute, let me check." Her father called out, balancing a scratched pan. "Just let me do my famous flip." Everyone in the Evans family had, at one time or another, tried a pancake flip, and each time, had failed so spectacularly that the only one who tried it anymore was Mr. Evans.

Lily covered her eyes with her hands, but really, if you had looked, you could have seen two emerald orbs peeking out between the pale fingers. The pancake rose up to half a meter, uncertain, unbalanced, uneven and edgy. It journeyed opposite to the dead bodies of its brethren, some stains stuck on the cream colored wall, some on the ground, and one, inexplicably on the other side of the room, next to the window.

Her father, spry and heavy set, placed the pancake in front of her. He piled a generous serving of butter on the top, and tipped an invisible hat. Lily laughed. Her father smiled. George Evans was a warm man. Without missing a beat, the moment he had laid down the pancake, he went and made a show of leaning out of the window. He called out to Rose, "Not yet dear." Stopping suddenly, he said, "Wait! I see one!"

Lily pouted. "I have been waking up fairly early these days!" She said indignantly.

They all laughed and Lily smiled at the absolute normalness of the moment. If only everyone could be that way….

She sighed as Petunia entered from the entrance, back after visiting her boyfriend, her bony frame and cheek boned face making her resemble a horse. She greeted their parents, kissing her mother on the cheek, ignoring Lily entirely. Lily called out a tentative hello and was surprised by the look of venom thrown her way.

The last few days, Petunia had been lost in her boyfriend, and his drilling company, and his money, and parents, and his education, and did she mention his drilling company? Her eyes had taken a slightly love-sick pallor that, if not interesting, was still intriguing. The result of it all was that she no longer had had the time to be resentful toward Lily.

The reason for the resentment, Lily thought dismally was not something that she could do anything about. She was interrupted by the arrival of a small tawny owl, bearing in its talons the magical newspaper, The Daily Prophet.

A shriek came in, "What is that….that thing?" Petunia pressed against the kitchen counter, as far away from the window as possible.

"Come on, Petty, it's just an owl," I said, taking the newspaper and adding two knuts to the owl's pouch. It hooted once as if in thanks and sped away with a whoosh of air. It had escaped just in time.

"Just an owl? Just an owl?" She stomped over to the window, and looked about superstitiously, "honestly," she continued, "in broad daylight?" She scowled unpleasantly. I don't want your…..your freakishness to be seen by the neighbors. Owls at all times of the day, talking through the fire-place….I hope you stay in your room today. I don't want Vernon to see all of this."

Lily said nothing. She would not be home for very long now, only a few days left. And then back, back to Hogwarts, where she could truly be herself.

-–-

Remus John Lupin hobbled down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible. Placing a cold hand on the railing and putting all his pressure on that arm and the other good leg, he could move forward. Slowly, slowly, he reached the floor below.

His mother would be in the kitchen, pretending to read the newspaper, so that she could avoid talking to her only son. His father would be at work, and after that drink himself to sleep.

He washed his face near the washbasin, and glanced up to see his face. He had to bend a bit now, owing to his newly gained height, to look at himself in the perpetually fogged up mirror. Sometimes he felt that he was growing old too fast. His joints ached like those of an old man; the blue in his eyes seemed to fade in brilliancy each time he looked at them. His hair too showed spots of white. In truth, sometimes he thought the premature aging was the worst part. But really, nothing could beat the transformation.

As a kid, after being bit by Greyback, he had run through the forest as fast as he could, his baby legs trying to outrun a partly changed werewolf. He had shouted, screamed, but the forest seemed to be endless, and his feet kept on pounding the Earth…..

He sighed.

That was how he felt. Like he was trying to outrun a werewolf all the time. Except, the werewolf was him.

-–-

Sirius Black was considered the most handsome lad in Hogwarts. This claim was not false, because even with a broken nose, a black eye and several painful bruises, he managed to pull himself with a specific kind of grace. He limped around his room, levitating everything inside his bag, casting a nonverbal 'Silencio'. He tried to move as fast as possible, groaning in pain every time he moved his left shoulder. It was the dead of the night, and the moon shone through his barred window. He wondered about Remus. He cast a featherlight charm on his trunk and took one last long glance at the House of Black.

His bedroom was so openly rebellious that he allowed himself a small smile as he looked around it. At every spare surface that he had found, there glinted the Gryffindor red and gold. All around the walls, lay girls in various vulgar positions, unmoving as muggle photographs did. He set fire to the copy of the Black tapestry in his room and broke everything that had the Black crest on it, satisfied by all the wreckage ,that showed only a small part of the anger inside.

He was as quiet as a ghost as he passed Regulus's room, and his heart squeezed painfully. Sometimes he wished he could go and ….and just hug Regulus. But so much had been said and too much had been done. He passed the beheaded house elves, and looked around for Kreacher's arrival.

He opened the door and exited out of one of the darkest and most secure places in London. His wand arm was shaking. He tried to quell it, but it would not stop.

He had never defended himself in a duel like the way he had done with his father. His father moving toward him, twirling his wand around like some giant snake. His wand arm was not poised, he moved almost lazily, careless and predatory. Sirius had never moved the way he had. He had tried to defend everything that his father sent his way, but he was just too fast and there were just too many unknown curses sweeping his way. He remembered turning around and running, and then his father had got him in a special kind of body bind. And then he had rained the punches and the kicks and the blows and Sirius had abruptly swore to himself that he hated the smell of Odgen's whiskey.

He was finished with this place. He was afraid that, like his parents he too would grow cold and bitter, disregarding everything to maintain their place in the society. His father, an important member of Wizengamot had just passed a law, through bribe and threat that decreased the chances of muggleborn employment. He had protested after they had wanted to pass a law that would make it legal to kill all werewolves through starvation by not providing any jobsto them.

It had been a mistake, but one of his better ones.

He got ready to apparate, and prayed to Merlin that he would be able to reach there without splinching himself.

-–-

James Harold Potter was not one of those people who slept early. He looked at the moon and thought about how Remus was. His parents were sleeping inside, tired after a long day of Auror work. The night air blew in cool gusts, passing through his unruly black hair, and he relished in the feel of it.

The area around his house was big enough for him to play Quidditch in. Presently, he was perched on his broom, but he felt as comfortable as though he were sleeping in bed. His hazel eyes framed with wire-rimmed rectangular glasses swept over the tops of trees and into the cold, cold night.

He swept about in circles and zig-zagged in ways that he knew would give his mum a heart attack. He could be free here, never have to worry about being the only son of two of the best aurors on the force and the sole inheritor of the Potter fortune, or being the mischief making 'Potter!' at school, or the-

His reverie was broken by a crackling of grass beneath and he instantly became alert though he had no need to do so. The wards around the Potter family home were two decades old and understood only specific apparition symbols. He hoped that it was not somebody from work; his parents really did need to rest.

Nevertheless, he descended cautiously, staying in the shadow of trees. In the dark, all that he could make out was a trunk. He squinted and saw a body, barely standing next to it. Never mistaking that particular build, he zoomed down at top speed.

Sirius Black saw the approaching body of James Potter, also known as Prongs, or at the right moment, a prat,then saw him unmounting his broom through dizzy eyes and smirking lightly, said, "Hey Prongs….since when are there two of you?

-–-

Peter Pettigrew hurriedly scribbled over the parchment. His mousy hair was falling over his eyes and he pushed it back and stared at the parchment, his watery blue eyes reflecting the blossoming sun rays of the morning.

He had received the letter from James about Padfoot just an hour ago. In the early hours of the morning, he had hurried about, looking for any books of healing that they might possess. Finally, he had decided to ask his mother who had worked as a nurse at St. Mungo's. She had distractedly muttered a bunch of things to try and he had started jotting them all down but she had had to leave in the middle of it all.

Now he rubbed his forehead, trying to recall all that she had told him and made an exasperated noise as it slipped from his grasp. His neat and tidy handwriting was littered with scratches and blots, and Peter wished that he had been better at recollection. But that was Sirius's forte.

He wished for a lot of things, really. Looks, a better memory, maybe a bird every once in a while? But he tried not to dwell on that, and returned to writing. He sealed the letter. Something came to his mind and he hastily copied it down, happy to have recalled something.

This year, he decided would be his. He would try his hardest. He would rise above everyone and show them what he was really made of, he promised himself.

But he promised that to himself every year. He wished he was better at keeping promises.


End file.
